The Stained Satin
by XanthippeAlexithymia
Summary: John had long since accepted that by living with Sherlock he was always going to be in a more or less stunned state but when he walks in to find a young woman in the flat claiming to be Sherlock's girlfriend before abruptly leaving he is dumbfounded. Who is she, how does she really know Sherlock, and why does his flat mate continually drink her dreadful brews of tea? SherlockXOC
1. Prologue

Climbing up the stairs with two bags of groceries, Watson found himself both pleased that there would now be food in the flat and fearful of what experiments of Sherlock's he may find while putting away his purchases. Eyeballs in the microwave and a severed head in the fridge were bad enough but who knew what else the tall, pale eyed deduction genius had hidden within the confines of the flat. Nudging open the door and turning the corner to the kitchen, Watson dropped the brown paper bags at the sight before him. The counter and table were spotless, every bottle, paper scrap, and empty food container gone as it smelt faintly of house cleaner. The floor and windows reflected the light from the freshly dusted bulbs and even the smears on the fridge had been removed. Moving forward and opening said fridge, he found the shelves had been cleaned and that thankfully there were no more body parts stored inside of it, smelling faintly of lemon. Whistling from the stove startled him as he turned to find a kettle spewing out steam and screaming at him. Just as he went to turn off the stove a figure turned the corner into the kitchen, startling him even more than the kettle.

The clean kitchen had been nearly enough to make Watson faint from forgetting to breath but the young girl in front of him just about gave him a heart attack. Her eyes, blue he noted, landed on him immediately and she gave an easy smile while crossing to switch off the stove and pour the water into a waiting tea cup, two he noticed on further inspection (all this time around Sherlock really was rubbing off on him).

"Ello there," she said in a horrible British accent, laughing lightly to herself. "Sorry, I'm horrid at trying to impersonate the way you all speak," she added in what was definitely an American intonation.

"Uh, who are you?" he asked as she set the kettle back down, practically dancing across the kitchen to pull milk from the fridge and pour a bit into each cup and then commence in stirring them.

"Ellie," she answered brightly. "You must be John. It's very nice to meet you." Stunned, he took her small hand with dainty little fingers and shook it.

"How do you know me?" he asked. "More importantly, how did you get in here?" Watson asked, releasing her hand so she could scoop sugar into the tea, still stirring.

"Oh, I've been told all about you…this doesn't look right," she mused, leaning over the two cups with a puzzled frown between her brows.

"You didn't let the tea steep before adding milk and sugar," he said reflexively.

"Oh, of course!" she exclaimed, shaking her head and throwing a casual smile back at him over her shoulder. "I'm completely helpless when it comes to making tea. Sherly is much better at it than I am. Perhaps it has something to do with being British," she said, speaking the last sentence wistfully as she looked off into the distance.

"I'm sorry, Elle, but-."

"Ellie," she corrected with yet another bright smile, squeezing out the tea bags and the tossing them.

"Yes, Ellie. You never said why you were here," Watson reminded her.

"My bad. I know Sherly," she answered, sipping at what could never be related to as being tea.

"Sherly?" he asked.

"You know, Sherlock? Sherlock Holmes? The man you blog for," she went on, her tone teasing.

"And how do you know him?"

"I'm his girlfriend," she answered cheerfully. Before the doctor could say anything else her phone rang and with a quick glance at it she set down her tea and reached for the white pea coat that was slung over the back of one of the chairs in the living room, flipping her blonde curls out from under the collar before buttoning it. "Sorry to dash but I've got to go," she said, picking up her tea cup again and lifting it in a salute with yet another smile. "It was nice meeting you, John." Before he knew it, Watson was alone again, in the incredibly clean kitchen, much more dazed and confused than he ever had been before, even considering the time he spent with his odd flat mate.

It was in this state that Sherlock returned, shrugging off his coat and hanging it before walking with lengthy strides into the kitchen, noting the groceries on the ground.

"I believe you dropped something, Watson," he said, spotting the tea on the counter. "Ah, just what I could use, a spot of tea." Just as Watson went to speak, Sherlock picked up the cup and drank some of it, pulling back and scrunching up his nose at the taste. "Really, John, this is a dreadful brew. I thought you knew how to make tea." Despite what he had just said, Sherlock finished the cup and left it on the counter, walking off to the living room and for his violin as he said something about a recently closed case that Watson had not even been aware off.

"Aren't you curious?" Watson called, gaze flickering from the cup to the spilled groceries and then the table.

"About what?" Holmes called back, the abused chords of his instrument already being plucked mercilessly.

"The kitchen. It's clean."

"No, not really. Had I been I would have asked."

"Sherlock," Watson started, walking out of the kitchen to see his flat mate on the couch, "Are you currently…in a relationship with anyone?"

"Of course, I am in relationships with everyone I know. That is a silly question," he answered rapidly.

"Yes, but I mean…intimately…with a girl." The plucking stopped and a pair of strikingly pale eyes landed on him.

"What a peculiar question? Are you feeling ill?" Sherlock asked.

"No, why?"

"You are not yourself and your ability to hold groceries as well as make proper tea has declined. Perhaps you should see a doctor, other than yourself of course, I don't suggest self-diagnosis in this instance," he prattled before abruptly standing and turning. "I'm off to bathe." Again, Watson was left stunned and with many more questions than he had received any answers to. It was only as he set about putting away the groceries and placing the tea cup in the sink that he realized the girl, Ellie, had taken its twin with her.

* * *

Hello! I've just been recently catching up on Sherlock via the wonderful creation that is Netflix and had this idea pop up in my head. I love Sherlock's character but he is probably the most intimidating guy I've ever taken on. I mean, it's freaking Sherlock Holmes. Every time he finishes a sentence I want to hug the screenwriter that wrote it.

Usually I write in first person but for this story I felt Watson needed to start it off and it was easier in third. I haven't written third person since grade school it's been so long. I've decided that Ellie will always be first person but blips by Watson will be third and as for Sherlock, I'm not sure if his point of view will pop up. He scares me when I think of having to write his thoughts.

There will be a case with this story. I just couldn't fit it in the description.

Please leave a review to let me now if you are interested in the continuation of this story, even if it's only the slightest hint of "That's interesting". I'm not looking for you to be floored yet, as it is only the prologue, but I would like to know of it peaks someones curiosity so I know whether to spend a lot of time developing the story I have laid out or if I should focus more heavily on other things. Let me know!

Thank you for reading and please review! It makes me squeal each time I receive an e-mail telling me I have one (literally, I've had to do a lot of awkward explanations to people). Thank you for reading The Stained Satin!

**EDIT:** Thanks to a guest who very kindly pointed out mistakes in this chapter, a small bit where I switched over to first person has been corrected. Feel free to give me advice and corrections as you wish, I am always attempting to improve my writing.


	2. Chapter 1

Two weeks after the strange encounter with Ellie, Watson was recovering from three days without sleep, a case having just been solved the previous night, or rather that morning. When Sherlock focused on a single case there was no resting and rarely any eating so he did not feel one bit guilty about rolling over to see the clock flashing that it was past noon. Sitting up with a groan, Watson put his feet onto the cool floor and started stumbling towards the kitchen, stomach demanding sustenance in some sort of form. In the living room he found Sherlock sitting with his knees close to his chest, watching some ridiculous TV show as was becoming increasingly common. He wore only his sheet again, another disturbing act that was become familiar, and didn't even glance up towards Watson as he told him there was no food in the cupboard.

"Why didn't you tell me earlier?" he groaned, still searching for some sort of nourishment despite his flat mate's words.

"It wasn't important. We were working on a case," he told him, eyes flickering over the screen as he murmured to himself about the characters.

"Then I'll just have to go out. Are you coming?" Watson asked, dragging his feet as he walked back to his room.

"Seeing as there is little else to do, I suppose it will have to do," he said quickly, as usual, standing and striding to his room with the sheet trailing behind him. While changing, Watson inwardly groaned to himself. It had been foolish to invite Sherlock along. He always managed to get into it with someone, having to prove he was right without even knowing the person. The last time he had been shopping for groceries with him he had been slapped by a mother after he told her how her child's poor behavior was a result of parental issues she still had since she was five.

This time promised to be no different.

After steering the tall man away from anyone who threatened to come within three meters of them and narrowly evading the talkative deli lady, and the middle aged woman that Watson had watched write down her number with lipstick on a napkin Sherlock couldn't keep quiet about how the cashier, who had dropped out of school, was sleeping with her boss and pregnant, leaving the poor girl in tears with her boss staring at her pale in the face and twenty pounds overweight.

"Must you do that every single time we go somewhere?" Watson asked, carrying both bags as Sherlock strolled along with his hands in his pockets, his eyes roaming the street for the next potential victim most likely.

"I was simply telling that girl the truth. There is no harm in that," Sherlock insisted flatly, tilting his chin up as he scanned across the street.

"There is harm in it, Sherlock, just not to you."

"Oh, she would have realized it sooner or later and with pregnancy sooner is always better. Just imagine who much earlier she can start prenatal care," he mused.

"Or try to abort the child in a most likely dangerous way," Watson told him.

"That is your deduction, Watson, not mine." Containing an aggravated sound that itched at the back of his throat, the rest of the walk to 221B Baker Street was in silence. Sherlock took up reading while Watson put the food away, eating some as he did, and then set to work on the latest blog update. A few hours later, Sherlock wandered off, his steps echoing down the stairs before the front door announced his exit from the building. Thinking nothing of it, Watson kept at work, not even noticing when the door below opened again. Slow footfalls climbed the stairs and when the door creaked open he didn't even look. The steps went to Sherlock's room, the door shutting, and after glancing towards it, Watson shrugged. Perhaps the exhaustion from the past few days had finally caught up to the detective.

It wasn't until dinner, the blog freshly updated, that the door opened to reveal someone who was definitely not Sherlock. Watson choked on his drink when he looked up from the nightly news to see a pair of thin legs under one of, presumably, Sherlock's dark shirts.

"Hello," the girl greeted, rubbing the tiredness from her eyes and failing.

"You!" he exclaimed, standing. "What are you doing here?"

"I needed to sleep and this place was close. Do you have any food?" she asked, wandering into the kitchen and opening cupboards.

"A little," Watson answered before shaking his head. "You're here again?"

"Yes," she said, scratching a spot on her head and making the messy mass of curls on her head jiggle. "Got any cereal?"

"No," he said.

"Shame," she said, bending over. As the shirt rode higher Watson quickly turned around, his cheeks blushing. "I love me some Fruit Loops."

"Fruit Loops?"

"Yup," she answered, popping her lips. "Haven't had any in a while." At the sound of the cupboard shutting he turned around to see her standing straight again. "Guess I'll just have to go out and eat." As she gathered up her coat and slipped on a pair of heels Watson hadn't noticed by the door he found himself confused again.

"Shouldn't you put on your clothes?" he asked.

"Yes, but I didn't come here with anything but my coat," she said, flipping her hair back as before. When Watson was about to question her she flashed him a smile and waved over her shoulder. "I'll be seeing you, John." She walked down and out the door, leaving the doctor to watch her go. This time, he decided, he was going to really question Sherlock about that girl. She looked much too young to know him, let alone be in any type of relationship. As the door slammed open and said man ran up the stairs he was prepared to do just that, opening his mouth to speak when his coat hit his face.

"Put that on, we have another case," he said hurriedly and before he knew it they were out the door and running for a cab, Sherlock asking him again if he had money.

The case led to nothing, Sherlock solving it in a matter of minutes yet again but it led to a few hours of paper work for Watson, not to mention the blog update. A few days later, after coming back from a visit at the police station to see if anything interesting had popped up that Sherlock had not been notified of, the two men were discussing the lack of cases.

"Maybe it's just a slow time of the year," Watson tried, both of the ducking in from the chilly rain that had been constantly pouring down for the last two days.

"It's crime, Watson. There is no slow time," Sherlock said, shaking the water from his short, dark curls.

"Boys, how lovely to see you back. Oh, Sherlock, you're all wet. You too, John dear," Mrs. Hudson said as she walked out to greet them, reaching up to try and wipe some water from their shoulders.

"Yes, it's raining something awful outside," Watson told her, taking off his coat.

"Has anyone come knocking for us, Mrs. Hudson?" Sherlock asked, hands still in his pockets.

"No, dear. It's been quiet besides the rain on the roof. Why? Were you expecting someone?" she asked.

"No, simply hoping," Sherlock sighed, pursing his lips together.

"What do you usually do in times like this?" Watson asked, slinging his wet coat over his arm.

"Become bored," Sherlock spat. "I hate being bored."

"Yes, I know. The last time you were bored you took it out on the wall and it still hasn't recovered," Watson murmured.

"Right. I still have to add that to your rent," Mrs. Hudson mused, just becoming reminded of the event. "That spray paint as well."

"What you need is a hobby," Watson decided. "Something to keep you occupied while we wait for the next case or customer."

"No, what I need is something interesting to do."

"Yes, a hobby."

"What hobby do you suggest I take up?" Sherlock asked, turning to look at me.

"I don't know. You could watch the stock market and figure out what the next best-."

"Done," he sighed, looking away.

"How about horse racing-."

"Already did it."

"Developing a new code-."

"Child's play."

"Making a new language-."

"A silly, frivolous waste of time."

"Embroidery." Sherlock paused, turning his pale gaze on me with his furrowed brows.

"What?"

"Embroidery," Watson repeated.

"Why?"

"I don't know. Just something that came to mind," he said.

"No," he answered shortly. "What I need is someone to come to the door with something interesting to solve."

A knock at the door drew their attention and both turned quickly to look behind them, a brief glance shared between the two with Mrs. Hudson watching before Sherlock stood tall, straightening his coat, and motioned for Watson to approach the door. Suppressing a sigh and rolling his eyes, Watson moved to the door and opened it, the annoyed expression on his face turning baffled as he saw what lay behind it.

The mystery girl, Ellie he believed it was, stood slumped against the door frame, blonde ringlets colored dark from the cold rain that dripped down the spirals to splash on her bare, bloody feet. Her white coat was dirty and soaked and the skirt beneath it, a once lacy piece of clothing he was sure, was tattered along with it. She looked up, blue eyes still bright as ever despite how tired the rest of her face seemed, and smiled. Following her gaze, Watson found Sherlock staring at her, mouth agape.

"Hey, Sherly," she said in a tired yet chipper voice. "Could you make me a cup of tea? I've had a long day."

* * *

Short chapter. They will get longer after this. Usually each chapter is at least two thousand words long. I just couldn't wait for Ellie to come in and interact with Sherlock.

Thank you to those who followed and/or favorited this story and a special thank you to TaylorRiley17 for commenting!

I love reviews. Thanks to the single one I got I wrote this chapter though it was a bit rushed and sloppy I apologize. I just knew what I wanted to happen at the end and made it stretch until then. They will get better from here.

Review and the next chapter may come faster! It is by no means a demand though, I hate it when authors demand reviews. Stories and words are a gift and they should be given at free will.

Thank you for reading The Stained Satin and I hope you enjoyed the chapter!


	3. Chapter 2

Sherlock crossed the distance to the door quickly, bending down low and scooping the girl up off her feet before she could fall. She hung limp in his arms, head lolling against his chest as she blinked slowly, still smiling and lifting one hand to his face. He was halfway up the stairs with her before he said anything to Watson and Mrs. Hudson.

"Get the first aid kit," he demanded, kicking open the door with his foot. After a moment of hesitation, Watson retrieved the kit and took the stairs two at a time up to the flat, walking in to find Sherlock had already put her down on the couch and was kneeling before here with a bowl of water and a cloth. He washed her feet carefully, the blood staining the water pink, but also quickly, his movements a bit more rushed than usual.

"Let me look," Watson said, moving closer to Sherlock with the kit in hand.

"No, go get a blanket," he said curtly, never looking up.

"Sherlock, no offense, but I'm the doctor here," Watson reminded him.

"A blanket," Sherlock repeated. Scoffing, Watson dropped the kit and crossed the room for a blanket, bringing it up and wrapping it around the girl who was giving him a tired, apologetic look.

"Sorry, he's always been like this," she said.

"Like what?" Watson asked.

"Protective," she answered. "He probably won't settle down until I'm sleeping and all the doors and windows are locked. Last time he wouldn't even let me leave his sight to get a shower, insisted on keeping the door open and sitting just inside the bathroom. I swear he's convinced I'm accident prone."

"You are," Sherlock told her, placing down one foot before raising the other. She smiled and rested her head back, eyes closing.

"Only sometimes, Sherly."

"What happened?" Watson asked, looking at her dirty legs and wet appearance.

"I got caught in the storm barefoot, that's all," she sighed.

"And just so happened to be in a warehouse," Sherlock commented, opening the first aid kit to withdraw a pair of tweezers and begin plucking glass from her heel. She hissed when he pulled out a particularly large one and Watson was shocked to hear the man apologize, albeit under his breath.

"How do you know it was a warehouse?" Watson asked.

"Besides the glass, I'm guessing it's because I reek of it," she said. "Cold, dusty, and like cardboard. I use to work in the office of one but the smell still slung to me."

"Use too?"

"It was only a few weeks," she told Watson, "Filling in for someone on vacation. Perfect timing too as it led Sherly to a major break in a case but that was before he met you."

"Watson, make yourself useful and clean out the cut on her finger," Sherlock said as he started wrapping her feet in thin gauze.

"Her finger?" he asked, looking at the girls small, delicate hands.

"Yes, middle finger, left hand. She left blood on me when she touched my face," Sherlock told him and sure enough, there was a small, red smudge on his sharp cheekbone. Opening her blue eyes, the girl lifted her hand and flipped it over to reveal a very small cut on the pad of her finger, only a centimeter long.

"Nothing ever seems to escape him," she mumbled, slowly looking over as Watson opened an alcohol swab and cleaned the cut.

"Some things do, Ellie," Sherlock said, using her name for the first time and shocking his friend at the sudden bout of honesty. Watson turned to toss the swab and when he returned he found Sherlock already wrapping her finger in a Band-Aid, running his longer fingers along the ends so that they lay smoothly. Looking at her feet, he found them bandaged and even the mud that had been on her upper calves had been washed away, both legs propped up on the coffee table as Sherlock now sat beside her on the couch. Her eyes were shut again and for once her lips not smiling. Judging by her deep breaths, Watson assumed that she had finally fallen asleep. Silently, Watson watched as Sherlock reached up and moved some wet strands of hair from her face. Again, Sherlock picked her up, cradling him to her chest with blanket and all, and began walking back towards his room.

"Do you need any more help?" Watson asked.

"No," Sherlock answered shortly, nudging the door shut with his foot. Sighing, Watson turned at looked back at the now wet spot on the couch and abandoned first aid kit. At least now he knew there was no doubting Ellie's existence and that he was not, in fact going mad. She still left plenty of questions to be answered though.

* * *

Morning came slowly and brightly, trying to wake me several times though my eyes never opened. When they finally did manage to flutter apart, I found myself facing a wall holding a framed poster of the periodic table. Smiling faintly, I closed my eyes and turned my face into the pillow, inhaling deeply. Sure enough, my nose was met with the clean yet musty smell that was Sherlock. Now, however, I noted there was no smoke. He must be trying to quit again. Pushing back the sheet, I sat up and put my feet on the ground, carefully standing as to learn where to balance myself so that it was less painful. Sherlock must have changed me last night after I fell asleep because the lace dress I had been wearing was gone, replaced with one of his nondescript t-shirts that were slate blue and hung to my thigh. Slowly walking forward, I grabbed his silk robe that he had left behind and tied it around my hips as tightly as possible, running my hands over the slick material.

Moving out to the kitchen, I found Sherlock standing in front of the stove, fingers drumming on the counter as he stared at the kettle, wearing only his pajama bottoms.

"A watched pot never boils," I chided him, coming to sit myself down at the table and rest my feet.

"This is a kettle, not a pot," he told me, still turning around to fix me under his pale eyes that were sometimes blue or green, a few times both. For a while we looked at each other in silence, our gazes only breaking when the kettle whistled. Sherlock made the tea quietly, joining me at the table after a few moments and setting a cup down in front of me. I noticed that it was his cup he had given me, settling for a mug himself. This had to have been because I had forgotten to bring mine back. He knew I preferred dainty tea cups to mugs but where mine was full of artistic white arches and gold edges his was simple with a few silver accents, a gift I had bought him. "I told you to stay away," he said.

"I know," I sighed, "and I was until I realized something was up."

"What do you mean?" Sherlock asked, his scolding tone suddenly serious.

"Weird things kept popping up. Camera flashes, familiar cars, then familiar faces. It was when I bumped into this one strange guy that I realized something was going on," I told him, sipping at the tea. "Delicious."

"What kind of guy was it?" he asked leaning forward.

"None descript really. I didn't get a good look at him but he looked like he was trying to blend in. There was just something off about him," I said, sipping some more. As he went to ask another question we were joined by John who was groggily running his hand through his hair.

"Good morning," he greeted, nodding towards me.

"Good morning, John," I replied, smiling up at the kind doctor. "You really got yourself a good friend here, Sherlock."

"Thank you, Ellie," John said, smiling as he too got some tea and sat down with us. "It's good to know that you two actually are acquainted and that you aren't some stranger who sneaks in here."

"Sneaks in here? What does he mean?" Sherlock asked, looking from John to me.

"I might have popped in a few times," I mumbled. "Didn't you notice the kitchen was clean?"

"I didn't think much of it," he answered, sitting back straight and drinking from his mug.

"Liar," I told him with a smug smirk. "How was the tea?"

"Nearly made me ill," Sherlock replied.

"So, how do you know each other?" John asked, jumping into our conversation.

"I told you, I'm his girlfriend," I reminded him, suppressing a laugh when he almost spat out his tea.

"Is this true, Sherlock?" John asked. "You never told me you had a girlfriend."

"Ellie is a girl and a friend, just as Mrs. Hudson is," the genius remarked. "Though, technically speaking, both are women."

"Women? How old are you, Ellie, if you don't mind me asking," John said, leaning forward.

"Not as you as you think," I said, putting down Sherlock's cup. "I'm in my early twenties." John blinked, thoroughly surprised at my age.

"I would have suspected much younger."

"Oh, most do," I told him.

"How did you two meet?" John asked next.

"That's quite enough from you, Watson," Sherlock said, cutting off his flat mate. "Don't you have something to do?"

"No, not really," John said honestly, giving Sherlock an innocent expression.

"I believe you do, think hard," Sherlock suggested slowly, his tone becoming intimidating.

"No, nothing," the doctor insisted, smiling sweetly. "About you two meeting-."

"A demonstration," I answered as Sherlock told him it was of no importance to John. Pale, intense eyes settled on me and I shrugged.

"Curiosity is a human trait," I said.

"No it isn't, it is an animal trait," Sherlock replied.

"Minor detail," I breathed, sipping the tea and letting my gaze flicker over Sherlock's face. "You really should shower, dear Sherly."

"I do not smell nor am I dirty," Sherlock stated shortly, raising his chin and looking away.

"My blood is still on your cheek," I pointed out. After a moment of keeping his proud posture, Sherlock excused himself and stood, leaving the kitchen for the bathroom as John and I both watched him go.

"So you really are his girlfriend?"

"In a basic sense of the word, yes," I told John. "I'm also one of his best kept secrets. Consider yourself lucky to still be breathing."

"Sherlock doesn't kill people," John said, his disbelief fading in an instant when he saw my serious expression. "He doesn't, does he?" Slowly, I drank my tea and then put it back down.

"I understand you are rather curious about our relationship but I must implore that you dig no further. Neither Sherlock nor I enjoy others looking into our personal lives. If we want to tell you, we will. Until then, simply accept that whatever we have is and that is that," I said to him. "If not I worry what actions he may direct towards you. He can be violent at times. You saw what he did with the man who threatened Mrs. Hudson."

"Yes-you know about that?"

"I know about a lot," I said, setting John under my gaze and giving him a calm smile.

"So…um…" John said, shifting in his seat as he became unnerved. "It is rather shocking to find he is in a relationship. Not even Mrs. Hudson knew."

"Yes," I sighed. "For a while I believed him to be asexual, had this whole theory on how he reproduced male offspring via budding but that all went out the window." John chuckled, shaking his head.

"What changed your mind?"

"He is a man, John," I told him. "Despite his intellect and stoic personality there will come a time every once in a while when he is weak. I just so happened to catch him in one of those moments." John blanched, his skin become a pale white.

"You mean…and he…walked in on…" Smiling sweetly, I finished off my tea.

"I think I'll just leave you to your imagination," I mused. "It always comes up with the most creative scenarios." John looked as if he was going to be sick and I chuckled.

* * *

There's a little bit of Ellie's point of view in this. I was really tempted to just keep doing Watson's but I wanted to play with her and the little bit of torturing she did at the end was just to had to resist.

So they met at a demonstration...just what was Sherlock demonstrating hmm? Haha.

What do you think Sherlock's weak moment was that Ellie caught him in?

I hope you all enjoyed the new chapter of The Stained Satin. Thanks to everyone who followed or made it a favorite of theirs as well as a big shout out to RileyTaylor17 and the guest who reviewed.

Reviews really excite me! Let me know what you think and how you feel, even suggestions. I'm open to anything. Look forward to the next chapter! Thanks for reading!


	4. Chapter 3

Once Sherlock was cleaned and dressed in a dark suit he sat by me on the couch, watching me.

"What?" I asked innocently.

"You know exactly what. You came here for a reason, one more important than someone following you. What is it?" Sighing, I stretched out and put my bound feet in Sherlock's lap.

"I believe that there is someone after me, a group actually," I admitted.

"What did you do?" he asked immediately.

"Nothing, I wasn't done yet," I told him. "I think they are after me to get to you. One of the times I visited your flat after being aware that I was being followed I found a car of theirs already here. They want you."

"It's impossible that they, whoever they are, know of our relation to each other. You put yourself in danger by coming here multiple times."

"I only did while they were distracted. For all they know, I frequent the next door café," I sighed, leaning back and settling into the cushions.

"And now that you fled back here?" he asked.

"Don't worry, I lost them," I said, sneezing in the most unattractive manner possible I'm sure, my whole body convulsing. "Hid for a while in a pipe."

"That explains the fever," he murmured, turning his attention to my feet and unwrapping them to inspect the damage from last night.

"I'm not sick," I told him.

"Yes you are," he said, not even looking up. "You have bags under your eyes, flushed cheeks, clammy hands, a groggy voice, and are not nearly as smiley as usual."

"You really know how to flatter a girl," I commented, leaning back and sighing.

"You are also still tired."

"Okay, fine, I'm sick. Make me tea," I said, nudging him with my foot.

"I already did," he said.

"But it's gone," I pouted.

"No."

"But Sherly," I whined, nudging him more before he caught my ankle and shot me a serious look with his pale eyes. Knowing the threat they held I stilled, returning his glare. "Touch my toes and die," I threatened.

"I know better, Ellie, give me some credit. The last time I so much as neared your toes you kicked my nose," he said, rewrapping my foot.

"I said I was sorry," I mumbled, looking away.

"If they are not aware that you are here now then it is only a matter of time," Sherlock deduced, picking up my feet so he could stand before placing them back down. "It appears my boredom has come to an end."

"Slow time of the year?" I asked, curling up on my side and accepting the ickiness I felt was not withdrawals from tea.

"There is no slow time of the year for crime," Sherlock said, straightening his suit with a tug.

"Uh huh," I mumbled, grabbing a pillow and hugging it to my chest. "While you're out could you get some Fruit Loops?"

"We already have Fruit Loops," Sherlock said, going for his coat.

"Where?" I asked. "John said you didn't have any."

"There is a box in the kitchen," he told me, his voice sounding further away as I closed my eyes.

"Where in it?"

"The cupboard up above the sink," he said, porcelain clinking nearby. "John can't reach it." Sherlock's footsteps left down the stairs and as the door shut I opened my eyes to find his cup sitting on the table in front of me, wisps of heat raising from the tea. Smirking, I reached out and grabbed it, sipping before placing it back and closing my eyes with a sigh, feeling the need for a catnap.

* * *

This was odd. Sherlock, by himself, was already odd but around Ellie he was even odder. He was not nearly as prone to witty comments, at least to her, nor did he trail off on as many rants as usual. Around her, he was also quiet, often talking to her in hushed tones. Simple human gestures that were normal for others astonished him when being performed by his lanky flat mate. Watson nearly toppled over when he watched him settle a blanket over Ellie's sleeping form on the couch. Sherlock? Openly caring? It was odd.

The only thing odder was perhaps Ellie herself. Watson had only been exposed to her in small amounts of time before but now that they were in the same flat for longer than a few minutes he realized that she was quite peculiar. At first he thought it might be because she was ill and drinking copious amounts off tea but after a while he accepted the fact that she was not normal. Ever. He had yet to find out exactly how though. The first hints were her movements. Before they had been chipper and she had been nearly dancing across the floor but now they had become short and business like, her head hung in a slight hunch. This could be explained by her cold but something about how she sat in a chair, legs spread with her hands on his knees, just didn't sit right with him. She was more of the type to curl up in a knot, he figured. Something about it was just…weird but he only noticed it when Sherlock was away so when he returned there was nothing for him to point out. Finally, two days after Ellie had showed up, she did it again only with Sherlock home and he noticed.

"Stop that," he said, swatting her knee as he passed her to sit and watch the telly.

"Stop what?" she asked, pulling in her knees anyway, nearly the same way Sherlock sat at times.

"Copying. You're making Watson nervous," he said, eyes trained in on the crap show that was on.

"So you noticed it too!" Watson exclaimed, turning from his laptop.

"Of course I did, John, have you forgotten who I am?" Sherlock asked haughtily, bobbing his head around as he spoke.

"What exactly was it? Copying?" Watson asked, flicking his attention to Ellie. She pursed her lips in a frown and crossed her arms, pushing back into the chair.

"Yes, it's what Ellie does, nearly second nature. She picks up the habits and actions of those around her. What you have been experiencing, Watson, is her mirroring your actions. Since she has been spending most of her time with you it only makes sense that she copies you more than myself or Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock explained, flipping the channel.

"You copy people?" I asked Ellie.

"Yeah," she sighed. "Started when I was in high school. Usually I just matched people's steps, made it easy to keep up but then I started doing it everywhere. In malls, museums, even while running on the track. It became second nature and when I learned about how other's mirror people I started watching for it and watching for it happened to turn in to doing it and then I stopped thinking about it."

"Mirroring?" I asked.

"Yes, Watson. It is usually a technique used subconsciously by one person who is attracted to another. Without realizing it, they will begin mimicking their movements and stance to show the other person's subconscious that they are similar and therefore good matches," Sherlock drawled. "Simple stuff."

"Simple, but I take it to an extreme," Ellie added, catching Watson's attention again. "Given enough time I can mimic everything that a person does. Their habits, quirks, sense of dress, way of speaking, even to the point where I will begin to assess situations in a similar manner and think the way they do."

"Why?" Watson asked before realizing it was rude but Ellie didn't seem bothered.

"Habit. It makes it easy to fit in when people think you are like them," she said. "Draws less attention."

"To what though? You're a young girl."

"Young woman, Watson," Sherlock corrected. "And as to her reasons they are solely her own." The look Sherlock cast over his shoulder reminded him of the one Ellie had given him when warning the doctor to stay out of their personal lives. Stoic, serious, and scary. Swallowing, Watson gave a jerky nod and turned back to his computer.

"It's one of the reasons Sherlock and I became so close," Ellie mused with a smile. "He noticed what I was doing and together we used it to solve a few cases."

"How?"

"Well, usually I would go in and get everyone's trust so they would let things slip. If that didn't work I would pick up their habits and with his observation skills we would piece together their lives until we found the answer we needed before confirming it with them."

"That sounds tedious," John said.

"It was," Sherlock agreed, "but effective. Ellie does look young and innocent so she can practically weasel her way into anything, not to mention how good she is at acting. Count your stars that you met her under happy terms, Watson, or she would have you tied around her little finger and playing you like a yo-yo." Ellie smiled brightly at Sherlock, obviously near making a full recovery as her exuberant attitude was returning.

"So, you've just been acting like me?"

"Basically," Ellie shrugged. "Why? Did you think something was up?"

"Something was definitely weird," Watson said slowly.

"Just wait until I start picking up how you two speak and acting like Sherlock. Then it will get weird," Ellie snickered, burying her nose in another cup of tea.

"I thought you couldn't imitate British accents," he said.

"She can't," Sherlock told him. "She starts speaking this odd dialect that's half American, half British and yet still a few out bursts of Irish. Complete nonsense really."

"Says the man who calls a skull his friend," Ellie teased. Watson waited for the witty reply from his friend but all that came of her remark was a glance and a twitch of his lip before his focus returned to the telly.

Yes, this was most definitely odd Watson decided.

* * *

"Bored," I sighed, sitting sideways in the arm chair Sherlock usually occupied with my legs and head dangling off the sides so I was staring at the fireplace upside down. My feet were now unbound, healed except for the worst cuts, and the small slice that had been on my finger would be nearly nonexistent if I hadn't kept picking at it. Wearing only another of Sherlock's shirts and his robe again, I was feeling rather lazy and free which only made the prison of boredom more apparent. For a week I had been trapped within the walls of this flat and having already exhausted the few sources of entertainment it provided I was left bored. For a while I had been distracted by Cluedo, playing it with Sherlock always brought on a new interesting challenge, but after the game had been promptly scattered across the room because of an inability to agree on the victim and their imaginary story I had been left with nothing to do.

"What?" Watson asked from where he sat at his laptop, his voice practically the sound of him perking up.

"Bored," I sang, kicking my foot back and forth.

"Well then, let's hope you have yet to copy Sherlock's actions when he is bored," he mumbled, almost sounding like he was worried.

"Why?" I asked curiously, tilting my head to the side even though I knew he couldn't see it.

"He is known to take a gun to the wall in such instances," Watson told me. Suddenly intrigued, I kicked myself up into a proper sitting position and folded my arms on the back of the chair before resting my chin on them, smiling wily at the kind doctor.

"Oh?" I asked. "What else?"

"Well-," he began, turning only to abruptly cut off, furrowing his brows in thought. "I get the sudden sense that this may not be the best thing to tell you."

"That depends," I said slowly. "What worries you more, how Sherlock will react if you tell me all the little silly things he has been doing in my absence or what I will do if you don't?"

"You know, I'm still not sure just how close you two are, girlfriend or not," John said.

"Sherlock sleeps nude," I spoke casually, giving a pleased smile as John blushed at the sudden confession. "Where have I been sleeping at night?"

"In Sherlock's room-," he answered, blushing a deeper red as he became more embarrassed.

"So," I breathed, leaning closer. "About all those silly things."

By the time Sherlock returned that day I had a permanent grin on my face from John's tales and couldn't help but direct it at the tall man when he walked in. Without any words passing between us I knew he understood what had happened and simply looked away, setting down the bags he carried by the kitchen table. Recognizing one of the brands, I stood and walked closer to inspect their contents.

"What's this?" I asked curiously, slowly pulling back one handle to look at the tissue wrapped contents within.

"You're dead, or so declares the fire that started in your flat," Sherlock remarked. "Besides, you can't keep wearing my pajamas." Flicking my eyes up to Sherlock I smirked, standing straight.

"Does this mean I can go outside?" He nodded and I smiled widely before it faltered into a frown. "You burnt my flat?"

"It was the best way of convincing your followers that you were gone. I also convinced them, with the help of a pair of twins I met, that you had dyed you hair so you shouldn't need to worry about changing yours," he remarked, removing his scarf and hanging it with his coat.

"I had important things in that flat," I told him.

"Nonsense," he said. "I searched it; there was nothing but sparse furniture and clothes."

"Yes, but-."

"I'm making tea, would you care for a cup?" Sherlock said, reaching up to pull down his tea cup even as he spoke. Before I could say anything, I noticed that it no longer sat alone on the counter, another cup with white arches and golden accents sitting beside it. Smiling, I watched Sherlock's back, knowing the pleased look that he no doubt sported on his hidden face.

"Please," I told him. "That would be lovely."

"You should dress," he declared. "Lestrade called. We have another case." Scooping up the bags, I practically skipped to Sherlock's room, ready to see what new style I would now be wearing as it would have to be different from before to avoid detection.

"It's so exciting around here," I said softly as I passed him, hearing a light chuckle follow me as I closed his door.


	5. Chapter 4

With arms crossed and foot about to begin tapping, Watson waited more or less patiently for Sherlock to don his coat so that they may go meet with Lestrade. To be honest, he too had become bored and was eager for the new case. At the sound of movement from the kitchen he turned; ready to address the man's more than relaxed pace only to openly gape at the sight before him.

Ellie, no longer in a robe, wore a navy shirt with beige polka dots and flowing sleeves that tied below her elbows and beige, high waist pants. The neck of her shirt was modest, scooping down to show a glimpse of her thin collarbones and nothing else. It was classy and appeared professional considering her youthful face but the way she walked in navy heels with the pants hugging her hips was sinful.

"Hello, John," she said brightly, tying up her blond locks before reaching for a new, navy pea coat and tossing it on.

"H-hello, Ellie," he stuttered, eyes following her as she approached Sherlock.

"Sherly, I absolutely _adore_ them," she said, twirling even before coming to a stop at his chest with her head craned up just to look at him. For the first time, Watson realized just how much taller Sherlock was than the girl who was quickly becoming his feminine counterpart. Even in heels, she only reached his shoulder and the amount of Sherlock that he could see on either side of her was astonishing considering how lean the man was. For a moment he wondered if she was unhealthily skinny but a quick thought back at the definition on her forearms and her curves shred that thought easily. She was simply thin and blessed by whatever gods may be to have an a-.

"Yes, I thought they would suit you quite well," Sherlock said, cutting of Watson's thought as he looked over Ellie's head to send him a glare. Clearing his throat, the doctor became suddenly interested in the floor and ignoring the blush that was growing on his cheek.

"It's refreshing," Ellie continued. "I haven't been able to dress like this in years."

"Later you may take time to relish in your wardrobe. For now, we have a crime to solve," Sherlock said, hands absent mindedly raising to button her coat and then tie it securely around her waist. Pulling on a pair of black gloves, Ellie followed the men down the stairs, linking her arm with Watson's after the bottom step.

"Um, shouldn't you-."

"For cover's sake, I am going to pretend to be your girlfriend," Ellie said. "We discussed this earlier."

"When?" Watson asked in disbelief.

"Yesterday, during lunch," Sherlock commented, opening the front door.

"I went out for lunch yesterday," Watson said.

"Oh, perhaps that is why you were so quite during the conversation," Ellie mused as they walked outside; her heels clicking rhythmically on the sidewalk.

"You have to stop talking when I'm not there," Watson said though his words fell on deaf ears as Sherlock waved down a cab, entering first with Ellie following.

* * *

Taking John's hand for support, I stepped out of the black cab and looked around the wealthy neighborhood we now found ourselves in. It was all very picturesque, houses tall and elegant with perfectly hedges and neat garden boxes. I would have mistaken it for a tourist picture had it not been for the caution tape and cars surrounding one house in particular. My pocket felt heavier now that Sherlock's phone was kept in it, handed over so I could take pictures of the crime scene. Accepting John's arm again, we followed Sherlock who was moving swiftly inside and up the stairs; past the many investigator's already scanning the house as well as a few that shot him dirty glances.

"Fancy," I commented as we climbed the steps, glancing around at the genuine paintings that hung on the wall as well as the antique furniture that decorated the house. "This woman had taste."

"How do you know it's a woman?" John asked casually, obviously use to asking such questions.

"Everything in here is feminine," I noted, following Sherlock to what appeared to be the master bedroom. Nothing seemed out of place but turning into the attached bathroom I fought the urge to gag and covered my nose and mouth with my hand. Lying on the meticulously tiled floor was a thin, middle aged woman in a gorgeous red dress, a similar color donning her lips. In the toilet and on its seat was vomit, the stale stench making my own stomach flip. Covering my nose, I stood back as the men approached the body, his magnifying glass already pulled out as he was examining the dress and John was studying the body.

"Who are you?" an older man, Lestrade I assumed, asked, turning to me with a quizzical expression on his face.

"Ellie Dartmouth, John's girlfriend," I greeted, skimming a last name off of the top of my head. Holding out my free hand, I gave him a firm hand shake before looking back at the crime scene.

"You bring you date to crime scenes?" Lestrade asked John, turning back to him as he continued his examination.

"Uh, yes," John said, distracted as he stood, watching Sherlock who had moved on to her hairline, dabbing at her brow before rubbing his fingers together and sniffing them.

"That's hardly proper," the detective criticized.

"Yes, well…"

"Oh, I'm fine," I said, waving Lestrade away. "I use to date a guy who was on the clean-up crew for crimes and loved showing before and after pictures. It only takes so many splattered brains for a girl to get used to it. It's just that smell." Coughing, I turned away, focusing more on the room.

"Aren't you a little young to be dating John?" Lestrade asked, still not able to let up.

"I like them older," I said casually, glancing over my shoulder to run my eyes up and down him before winking. He stood suddenly straight and turned back to John and Sherlock, leaving me be so I could pull out the Sherlock's phone and begin taking pictures. Walking around the master bedroom I began to acquaint myself with the surroundings, touching every table top, chair, and fabric in sight. Looking at the furniture I realized that she hadn't used much of it. Not even the bed had that much wear so it was relatively new. She liked soft things, using an excess of it in everything from silk sheets to cashmere socks. All of the clothes in her closet were expensive and cliché brands, nothing of actual class by a small name designer with a big name price and the lowest shoes she owned where three inch heels. Either she was a mistress who had a man shopping for her or a woman who had recently came into a lot of money. Approaching the window, I found the lower corner was smudged and upon closer inspection I found that there was actually a myriad of fingerprints. Placing my hand in that spot I leaned forward to look at the window. It was uncomfortable but she had to be looking for someone and often. Who? A lover? Perhaps a stalker? The mailman? Turning from the window, a dark patch of carpet caught my eye, showing a long, thin stripe that looked like a heel scuff. So she had been pulled suddenly from the window, most likely while she was all prettied up, but why? By who? What had happened after? More likely than not, the scuff probably happened shortly before her death as barely anything was misplaced except for the dead body in the bathroom. Taking a few pictures I moved on. Going to stand by her vanity I glanced at the surprisingly sparse top, opening a drawer to see everything neatly organized inside. Either this woman was a neat freak or she rarely used any of this. Nothing seemed to fit. She was at least in her thirties, at most forties. A woman always knew how to settle into their home and give it warmth. Nothing in this house held the sense that it was regularly lived in. It was like a dollhouse.

Returning to the doorway of the bathroom I found Sherlock inspecting a stain on the woman's skirt. It was pale, long, and thin with a bigger stain surrounding it.

"Is that toothpaste?" I asked, cocking my head to the side.

"Yes," Sherlock answered shortly.

"Why would she try to wash that out?" I questioned. "Water stains satin, not to mention all the fading it has from her wearing it in the day."

"What?" John and Lestrade asked simultaneously.

"Satin is used for nightgowns, bridal dresses, and formal night wear, partly because in sunlight it fades. Look at the front compared to the back. Completely different color," I pointed out. "Why she would even brush her teeth in it is beyond me."

"Why?" John asked.

"Because," I sighed, "women don't put on their date clothes until ten minutes before their date arrives. That way they don't crinkle or get anything spilled on them while they get ready like toothpaste for instance. That's stuff that any woman would wear sweats for. No wonder you lose all your girlfriends." Before Lestrade or John could say anything Sherlock stood abruptly, rounding the body.

"She isn't used to this lifestyle, that much is obvious," he declared. "Judging by the callouses on her hands she use to do hard labor, most likely a farmer of sorts, and her nails are still recovering from a life of unprofessional manicures if any at all. The scars along her arms suggest she did plenty of rough work and despite recent attempts to cover it her skin is spattered with freckles from spending all day in the sun. Whatever she did it was outside for long periods of time and she is trying to hide it."

"What else?" Lestrade asked. "What killed her?"

"Well," Sherlock said, looking down and staring at the woman. "There are signs of her wrists being bound but they are days old and done with something soft, most likely for a sex act. Her left ankle is slightly swollen but it is from an old injury that is agitated by wearing heels. I suspect she may limp in them."

"Yes, but what killed her?" Lestrade repeated. Sherlock glanced up at John who shrugged.

"You'll have to wait for the autopsy to determine that. Does this woman have a name?"

"No," Lestrade said slowly. "We've met a dead end on that."

"Hmm, odd," Sherlock noted, directing his glance to me. I lifted my hand, palm down, and wiggled it side to side without the detective seeing it, signaling I hadn't really found anything amazing. "After your people finish with everything else have them send it to my flat," Sherlock ordered, putting his hands in his pockets and walking out of the bathroom. "Along with the papers of who owns this house."

"That's it?" Lestrade asked. "She worked outside and was bound up for sex?"

"You forgot that she didn't know how to properly care for satin garments," I pointed out. The detective gaped at me in disbelief and before he could question why I was there once again we were already leaving.

"So, were you hiding something from Lestrade? You didn't tell him much," John said as we walked down the street.

"No," Sherlock said. "The scene was clean."

"What was on her hair?" I asked, lengthening my strides to match with Sherlock even as he shortened his so I could keep up.

"Gentlemen's mousse," Sherlock commented. "I'm currently trying to determine just how it got there. At no time was it on her hands."

"So…you're stumped," John said.

"No," we both said.

"We just need time," I told him. "Something was off about that whole place."

"Mistress," Sherlock stated.

"Considering the mousse, most likely," I agreed.

"Not living there long."

"Perhaps a recent move," I suggested. "A woman that age might have been a mistress for a while. Some of the things she owned were over six months old. If it was a recent move it's been within the last year."

"Hmm," Sherlock hummed.

"I think you're stumped," John repeated.

"No," we said sharply again.

"Time, Watson."

"That's all we need."

* * *

Hello! Sorry for no author's not last chapter but I added the breaks on my phone because my laptop stopped working so I couldn't really at one. Thank you to anyone who has favorited or followed this story and a huge thanks to those who reviewed! You really encourage me to write on.

So, the case begins (something I meant to mention in an author's note last chapter but that didn't happen). It was a little difficult because, to be honest, all the forward thinking I've done so far for this story is about Sherlock and Ellie...the case has kind of just been something I knew was going to happen dealing with satin that was stained...not great forethought on my part. At first I thought it would be the sheets, or curtain, cushion, something. Then I started writing and it turned into a dress and the woman...appeared. I have ideas for it now though so we're good haha.

I know earlier I said that Sherlock was intimidating to write from but how do you guys feel about a short bit of his POV? Would you like to see a bit through Sherlock's eyes? Let me know in a review!

I hope you all enjoyed the new chapter of The Stained Satin! Please review and let me know how you are finding it! I love reviews, they feed my soul and inspiration.


	6. Chapter 5

"What do you mean the house isn't owned by anyone?" I called out from the bathroom, ruthlessly brushing away at my teeth.

"Records show it as being owned by a false name," John called back, quieting as I strode out towards him and looked at the papers Lestrade's men had delivered along with boxes of evidence. "Anything I find shows that the false name was killed but it was a false death. It's simply paid for, probably in cash, and no questions are asked."

"That's hard to do now a days," I mumbled, leaving the toothbrush to dangle from my mouth as I reached for the documents and held them up closer to my eyes. "Eugene McNearny," I read in a muffled voice, scoffing. "I'd fake die too. What else is this guy involved in?"

"Absolutely nothing," Sherlock answered, enunciating every syllable as though it were an individual word. "He owned the house and other than the records that were given for buying it he only exists in death."

"That's a lot of trouble to go through for a mistress's house," I commented, picking up my brush resuming my nightly task again.

"Eugene McNearny owned the house for decades according to records," Sherlock said, unclasping his fingers that had been locked in front of his face.

"Everything was new though," I pointed out. "If he owned it, why the new inhabitant?"

"Maybe he switched mistresses," John suggested.

"No, he'd never keep them in the same place," Sherlock dismissed.

"Do you think he used the house for something else then? An illegal business maybe."

"No, there would have been signs of that. It was in a nice neighborhood, the local watch would have likely noticed if something had been happening for years. Whatever the change was, it was subtle. Lestrade questioned the neighbors and they said nothing strange had been happening and though none of them knew the resident they were never suspicious of her," Sherlock said.

"So maybe it was always a girl tenant," I said. "You'd think they know if suddenly a new neighbor popped up. If that woman had moved in there within the last few years she would have to be new."

"Yes, but not so new as to draw unwanted attention," Sherlock mused. Going to the bathroom I spat out my toothpaste, gurgling water and washing my brush before returning to the living room.

"This is puzzling," I sighed, slumping down into the chair across from John while Sherlock stared at the off TV. "A new woman living in a house owned for decades by a fake man that no one noticed." Sitting for a few moments I spoke up again. "What if Eugene McNearny is the dread pirate Roberts?" I asked.

"What?" John asked, immediately confused.

"It's from The Princess Bride," I explained. "The dread pirate Roberts is an infamous pirate captain with a big reputation but in actuality it's just a name passed down from one guy to another. What if Eugene McNearny is simply one owner but a name used by many people to pass the house along."

"It does not explain much but it is a possible theory," Sherlock sighed, standing and going for his violin, playing away at it in a sweet tune. As Sherlock began his thinking process both John and I became silent, working away at sorting through the paperwork and evidence late into the night. Eventually John went to bed and I moved to the couch only to end up sitting in front of it with evidence spread out on the low table before me. The violin music came to a stop but I didn't bother to glance up as the sound of Sherlock's pacing replaced it.

After a while Sherlock fell back on the couch, his arm falling limply to his side and coincidentally right next to me. Glancing over I noticed he had rolled his sleeves up, probably because he was hot from his constant movement over the last hour or so. Without really meaning to, my eyes flashed to the inside of his elbow and the scattering of scars that lay there. Reaching out, I lightly brushed my fingers along them, resting my head on his arm as I did. I knew Sherlock was watching me as I inspected the evidence of his past life but it wasn't uncomfortable more…intimate. Tracing imaginary lines between them like they were stars in a constellation I sighed, smiling to myself.

"I'm happy," I told him softly.

"About what exactly?" he asked.

"That these are memories," I said. "That I'm here and get to spend time with you. That I've met John and Mrs. Hudson. That even though I'm not quite safe I feel it. That you're here." Sherlock moved his arm so that his hand rested on my far shoulder, squeezing it gently.

"I'm happy too," he admitted. Smiling, I hid my lips in his sleeved arm.

"I won't tell John," I murmured into the fabric. "It's cute, the furrow he gets between his brows when he can't tell if you're upset or simply stoic."

"The car out front has disappeared since your flat burned down," Sherlock told me.

"They may be looking for something else to get to you then," I told him. "Just because they think I may be gone doesn't mean we're both in the clear. Did you ever learn who it was?"

"No, but I have my suspicions," Sherlock told me. At the silence following the statement I lifted my head and craned it back to look at him, resting it on the side of his chest. "My nemesis. He is the only man I can think of that would be able to relate you to me."

"Who?" I asked, puzzled.

"Moriarty," he told me, breathing the name with distaste yet reverence at the same time. "The correspondent criminal. He must have found one of the old cases we worked on and used it to track you."

"That's impossible," I told him. "We never used our real names and half the time I was dressed up."

"I wouldn't put it past him," Sherlock insisted.

"He sounds dangerous," I said, shifting and turning so I could look at him more comfortably while keeping his arm around me.

"He is," Sherlock told me without hesitation. "As soon as it is plausible you will need to move to a safer location." Sighing, I closed my eyes.

"I'm tired of running," I admitted. Sherlock began lightly running his hand over my hair, a comforting motion.

"I know," he told me.

A few years back, Sherlock and I had been on a case for his brother, tracing down a potential threat to the British government. We had known someone was going to attempt assassinating either the Prime Minister or Queen but we knew neither who nor when. During the case, when I had been sweeping a summer palace the Queen would be staying at for a few weeks, I had run in to a member of the group trying to pull of the attack. We had fought, both of us women, but I lacked proper training and she had a gun. This all resulted in me being shot but also her capture and the foiling of the whole plan. While I was recovering, another attack came only this time on me. Apparently I was a threat to their organization and they wanted me gone. Sherlock and I, along with Mycroft, decided it would be best for me to disappear for a while but my movement was constant and the times when my path crossed Sherlock's were sparse, only amounting to less fingers than I had on one hand.

This was the first time I had seen him in two years and though the assassins may no longer be following me there was a new group after us. It never ended.

"Does Mycroft know I'm here?" I asked quietly.

"Undoubtedly," he admitted. "He was able to keep a closer eye on your whereabouts than I was. I usually lost you until you popped up near me again."

"So you knew I was here," I said, opening my eyes.

"No," Sherlock told me, "but I knew you were close." Sighing only to end up yawning, I stood and stretched, Sherlock's arm falling from my shoulders.

"I'm off to bed," I told him, patting his shoulder. "Don't stay up too late." Walking off to his bedroom, I wiggled out of the PJ bottoms he had bought me and climbed in, nestling under of covers and into my usual spot in his bed which was usually his side based on how strongly it smelt of him. Taking a deep breath I closed my eyes, drifting off quickly.

* * *

Sherlock leaned against the wall; arms crossed, and stared at the young woman sleeping like the dead in his bed. Ellie was sleeping peacefully, a relief to the usual tossing and turning she did in the night, and had only rolled over at the sound of the door opening. She had always been a light sleeper, partly because of a short bout of depression when she was younger followed by a job at a summer camp in America that had required her to become alert immediately in the middle of the night should something go wrong. In college it had lessened due to the constant noise that surrounded her but she still always jotted alert at the sound of a door opening, even if she was exhausted. The fact that she had simply turned over showed her subconscious was becoming much more comfortable in her surroundings. Ellie was relaxing.

Moving towards the bed, Sherlock sat down on the side closest to the door and continued observing her. She hadn't changed much in the past two years yet she had. She looked older, though far from her age, and more seductive. Not seductive in the sense that she was sensual but in a way that she drew people in. Smiles that use to be full of cunning and smarts were now fogged over with a coy curve, leaving people wondering just what she was thinking. The looks that she use to cast his way before still retained their boldness but at the same time held a demure gaze, like she wasn't showing him quite everything. Her steps were as lively as ever but swayed ever so slightly to catch a man's eye. She was attractive, no doubt, with shoulder length hair the color of wheat and eyes that never ceased to leave him slightly speechless. They were hard to describe, despite the amount of words his vocabulary contained. On their basest level they resembled light gray granite with streaks of darker gray and something nearly black through them. Just over that layered a hazy blue that appeared pale where the gray was light and navy where it was dark. At times it looked like a wagon wheel, the edges and streaks from the center being pale as in between the spokes was dark but other times in was more like tiger stripes. When the sun shone in her eyes they bloomed to life with Caribbean blues and flecks of green and brown that decorated her smaller pupil. On rainy days they appeared darker and dreary like the skies above yet turned a light gray when the clouds cleared. The examples could be endless, no two ever the same yet more stunning than the last. Her small, pixie nose showed off the little bit of Irish blood she still carried with her despite it being muddled with German and Dutch in America. All of these things made her attractive but it was the way her personality lit up and maneuvered her features that made her beautiful. Anyone could have a pretty face but it was the personality that existed behind it that made a person unique.

For all of Ellie's happiness, however, there were invisible scars that Sherlock could still see her hiding. Over the years she had done well to hide them but they were still ever so slightly noticeable. The most apparent, perhaps, was how she interacted with other people. She was excited and open, of course, but for all of her exuberance she never touched them as many who were so did. Bright personalities and "people persons" usually connected with others through touch and while Ellie was both of these she rarely extended a move to interact physically with others. People picked up on this, though not noticeable, just by the way she held herself and acted. Both John and Mrs. Hudson knew not to touch her unless invited to without being told. They probably hadn't realized it she because she was did such a well job hiding it. Ellie always had to make the first move and after that she only ever accepted touching someone else, never letting them move first. This was apparent in when she took John's arm, establishing a connection between them as she was to pretend to be his girlfriend, and only ever took it again when he offered it. Mrs. Hudson had only ever touched her when Ellie extended a hand to the older woman's shoulder, asking if she would like help with dinner and that was simply to get her attention without startling her. Even with Sherlock, Ellie was hesitant in touching despite trusting him fully. Upon receiving her new clothing she had danced up to him and stopped with mere inches of his chest yet she had been careful not to touch him. Earlier that evening, when he had lain on the couch, she had begun their contact by touching his arm before allowing him to put it around her shoulders. Ellie was different with him however in that she always wanted to be the one to establish contact but then let him control it. He deduced she liked the sense of being in charge as well as being able to fully rely on someone to treat her well. Sometimes she let him act first but usually only when she was so far within his personal space they were practically touching, like when she let him tie her coat. Ellie was aware of the distance she kept from people and knew very well that Sherlock could see what she was doing. It was perhaps a reason they had grown so close.

Standing from the bed, Sherlock undressed and reached for his pajama bottoms, noticing Ellie had left hers on the floor. They slept in opposites, Ellie in a shirt and he in pants, at least when he wasn't alone and in nude. Gently shifting in to bed, he lay on his back and waited awake for a few minutes while Ellie moved in her sleep until she pressed her forehead rested against his arm. She slept better when she faced something solid, touching it even sometimes, and while usually that meant a wall Sherlock was often substituted in its place. Now, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, Sherlock wandered into sleep while planning to wake early to work on the case.

* * *

Thank you for reading The Stained Satin! A personal shout out to all of those fantastic people that follow and favorite this story as well as those who leave reviews. None of you ever cease to leave me smiling as well as inspired.

Thanks to a very encouraging review left by theinterestedinspector we got to see a little bit of Sherlock's insight on what he had already deduced about Ellie as well as what he noticed was new about her. Hopefully this shines a brighter light on just who she is. It was surprisingly easy to write. I started it knowing I needed about five hundred more words to end the chapter and it evolved into a thousand.

Some of their past was revealed in this as well as a nice little gentle moment between them. More of their past will be unveiled, I'm just kind of working backwards I guess. It's something new I'm trying to keep things interesting yet not annoyingly vague.

I hope you all enjoyed this chapter as much as I did writing it and feel free to let me know how you feel in a review!


	7. Chapter 6

When Watson walked towards the kitchen for coffee the next morning he found both Sherlock and Ellie were already awake, evidence sprawled out on the table. Pouring himself a cup of coffee, he watched as Ellie rearranged the piles in the front of her again and again before growling in frustration.

"This is impossible," she murmured, slapping down a photo she had been holding. "There's not enough room."

"Other than the floor, this is the largest, flat space there is," Sherlock droned, squinting at what all lay before him. "Ellie sighed, putting her hands on her hips as she ran her gaze along everything.

"Do you have any tape?" she asked after a few moments. After looking at her for a bit, Watson pointed over to his desk where she grabbed the desired object and began to promptly attach everything to the wall above the couch. When she started pulling things right out of Sherlock's hands he helped her finish before they both took up staring at the wall, Watson watching them peculiarly. Ellie took to sticking little notes to the wall as well, sticky pad and pen in hand.

"Autopsy results show signs of abrasions on her left knee," Ellie murmured, placing a note on the wall.

"Recent. Her dress held an abundance of fibers on her skirt that match the carpet of her bedroom," Sherlock added.

"The struggle definitely started there," Ellie sighed, crossing her arms. "What about the vomit?"

"Unless she drank scotch and ate steak for lunch it wasn't hers," Sherlock said.

"So a man most likely, perhaps her attacker. Whoever it was she knew him very well."

"Maybe it was the man who was supporting her," Watson spoke up.

"Undoubtedly," Sherlock confirmed. "I'm going to see what I can learn about this Eugene McNearny character."

"Have fun," Ellie called out as he left.

"What? No kiss goodbye?" Watson joked.

"Of course not," Ellie said simply. "We've never kissed before." Watson choked on his coffee before turning his attention back to Ellie.

"Ever?" he asked.

"Never," she replied, not looking away from the wall. "In case you haven't noticed, Sherlock and I aren't exactly normal."

"You sleep in the same bed and you've never kissed before," Watson elaborated. "Why?"

"It just never came up," she told him.

"It just never…," he trailed off and scoffed. "I know Sherlock is barely human but he is actually a man, isn't he?"

"Very much so," Ellie said casually, causing Watson to clam up more than he thought her response would. "Every man has his weaknesses, John."

"Oh? And just what are these, um, weaknesses of his?" Chuckling, Ellie threw a deviant look over her shoulder.

"Wouldn't you like to know."

* * *

"How well versed are you in hand-to-hand combat?" Sherlock asked me after I had taken a break for lunch, still wearing sweatpants and a loose shirt from bed.

"I know how to not break my thumb if I try punching someone," I told him with a casual shrug. "So not much really."

"Perfect. John? Come here." The shorter man stood from his desk, approaching cautiously as Sherlock led us both to the bathroom. "You're fighting, in confined quarters, Ellie, let's assume you are the furthest in and he's dragged you here, probably trying to hit your head off something." As he spoke, Sherlock put John's hands on my bicep and wrist and then mine one free hand on the wrist near my arm.

"Well, I can't really move his hands, he's stronger," I thought out loud. "If I duck I may get out of his grip but I'll be lower and he'll just have more control over me. We're struggling, so we're close." John and I started to mock fight, our bodies nigh as he tried pushing me back and I tried moving forward. "Honestly? I'd knee him," I said, bringing my knee up just slightly so they both got the idea. "We're close, he's not expecting it, and it's my only advantage."

"Good, just as I thought," Sherlock said, nodding and leaving the bathroom for us to follow.

"Thought what?" John asked.

"The mistress probably didn't know much about fighting or there would be more defensive wounds. Just about any woman like that, then, would try to hit the groin of their attacker," he told us.

"The vomit," I realized. "She kneed him so hard he puked."

"Yes. I am also willing to bet she used her left knee to do it as her right foot would be sturdier to hold her weight. The fibers on her skirt were approximately knee level and they were sparse, as though they had been transferred. Perhaps our suspect, when we have a suspect, will still have the pair of trousers with carpet fibers on them," Sherlock explained to us both.

"Brilliant," I said, "but it doesn't really help us out much."

"No, but it's still another piece of the puzzle," Sherlock said, returning his gaze to the wall.

The day passed slowly, resulting in little progress as we began to make a list of potential suspect types seeing as we really had to leads. Later in the afternoon I tried my hand at making tea again and had already given it to the boys before I realized the tea bags I had used had been torn. John politely drank it, cringing at the taste but soldiering through it none the less while Sherlock downed his passively before reaching his violin and starting his pacing again. We paused briefly for a dinner of sandwiches Mrs. Hudson had made before returning to our work.

Both Sherlock and I stared at the wall before us, pictures and notes taped up side by side and clustered together in a seemingly impossible maze of connections. Resting my weight on my left foot with my arms crossed and right hand to my lips I slowly scanned the facts, Sherlock standing beside me with his hands on his hips and a pen in his hand. Long ago John had left to sleep and the last time either of us had spoken had been an hour or so before that. Flicking my gaze around the wall I tried to see what I was missing. Pulling my hand away, there was a soft suction sound before I spoke.

"What about-."

"Not plausible," Sherlock told me. Returning my hand to my mouth I stared wall for a while longer before my eyes landed on a picture of the smudges on the window.

"Something here isn't right," I said, reaching out to touch the photo. "I thought she was leaning against the window but it's an uncomfortable placement even given my height let alone hers." Crossing the room, well aware that Sherlock's eyes were following me, I went up to a window and placed my hand in a similar spot. "If I wanted to lean forward I would place it higher and more towards my center for balance. Given the scuff mark on the carpet she had it down and to her right and had done so many times."

"What makes you certain the two are related?" Sherlock asked, wandering closer and away from the wall.

"With how much she touched that window it had to be habit. Anytime she was close to it she would have reached for it. If she was standing there she would have definitely touched it. What pulled her away?" I asked.

"The man," Sherlock said simply.

"Okay. She's by the window, he's behind her," I began, closing my eyes. Heat came from behind me, Sherlock's arms wrapping around my waist and his wide hands splaying out on my stomach. "He's close, intimate. She's wearing his favorite color and looking out the window sets the mood for him." Sherlock leaned in, his warm breath tickling along my shoulder and up to my neck. Tilting my head to the side closest to the window, I let him sweep away the loose strands of hair so his lips could hover above my skin. "He isn't looking, she is." Opening my eyes I looked out the window, my eyes drawn to my hand. "What next?"

"He's angry," Sherlock's voice hummed near my ear. "Something has set him off. He pulls her away." With a quick jerk, Sherlock grabbed my left bicep and right hip and started pulling me.

"She has a limp in her left foot, trips," I continued, letting my left heel drag.

"He shoves her, she lands on her knee, picking up fibers," he said, pushing me gently as I landed on my knee first before rolling to face him. "He picks her up again, wrists this time, redoing damage from days before." Grabbing my wrists, he pulled me to my feet and pushed me back.

"She's ready this time, doesn't trip and leaves no unusual marks. They're in the bathroom."

"What happens in the bathroom?" Sherlock asked me.

"She knees him" I said, mocking a blow to his groin. "Transfers fibers. He vomits. She dies." Separating, we both watched each other before turning to the wall again. "There's still a lot missing."

"Not as much, Ellie," Sherlock told me, crossing his arms. Sighing, I rubbed a hand over my eyes, pushing back some hair again only to have it fall back. "Go to sleep. It's late."

"You're not going to sleep yet, neither am I," I told him, still going to the couch and sitting down.

"I am feeling a bout of acute insomnia coming on, probably won't sleep for days," Sherlock drawled. "To bed, now."

"No," I sighed, stretching out on the couch. "I'll stay here, keep you company." After a few moments of silence I sighed and rolled onto my side. "You never asked how I knew it was his favorite color."

"Most of the revealing or fancy clothing in her closet was red," Sherlock murmured. "As we suspect most of it was purchased by the man having an affair with her it was a logical deduction. Good job." Laughing lightly, I opened my eyes halfway.

"It was child's play and you know it," I told him.

"Then why bother bringing up that I never inquired as to how you knew if you knew I already did?" Sherlock questioned.

"To make conversation," I sighed. "Sometimes it makes you go off on a tangent that reveals a clue. Apparently not this time, you must be tired."

"I am awake," Sherlock said.

"Yeah, and I'm awake too. That doesn't mean I'm not tired. Go to bed, Sherly, you'll be able to deduce better in the morning."

* * *

Thank you for reading yet another chapter of The Stained Satin! It's a short one but no matter how much I thought about it I just couldn't find anything else to add in this one.

Thank you to all of my followers, favoriters, and reviewers! You really help me keep going.

I keep meaning to mention this but then I forget so here it is. **This story takes place before The Reichenbach Fall.** In case that much wasn't obvious but it is still a very useful piece of information considering how major that episode was.

Feel free to let me know how you are finding the story, if you have any suggestions/find any mistakes, or if you just feel like dropping in and saying hi. Thanks again everyone!

**EDIT:** Spotted a couple errors and just fixed them.


	8. Chapter 7

"Where's John?" I asked, sitting with my feet in the sink as I practiced with my make-up.

"Off getting groceries," Sherlock said, taking his tooth brush from the counter. I watched curiously as he put the end in his mouth, biting down on it as he uncapped his toothpaste. Supporting the stem of the brush, he swiped some paste onto the bristles before capping the tube and removing it from his mouth.

"You look like a pipe smoker when you do that," I mused, returning to brushing a light powder on my eyes. Moving my feet again when he was ready to spit, I carefully applied deep pink lip gloss.

"Are you becoming a clown?" Sherlock asked.

"Close," I mumbled, rubbing my lips together before popping them. "A fourteen-year-old. It's nearly too young for me to pull off." Turning around on the sink to face Sherlock, I batted my powder blue eyelids at him. "How did I do?"

"A decade is a generous age difference," he commented.

"Not a decade," I told him. "Nine years."

"It would work with morons."

"Considering your definition, that means most of the populace," I pointed out.

"It is far from your most believable guise," he corrected.

"I know," I sighed. "I don't think that I'll use it anymore." Sherlock nodded in agreement, lifting his hand to hover near my chin. I raised my eyebrows at it curiously, looking up at him when he did nothing. Wordlessly, Sherlock moved and swiped his thumb under my bottom lip, pulling back to reveal the smear of lip gloss he had removed.

"This is not your color." An unflattering snort escaped my nose before I dissolved into giggles, Sherlock washing the gloss from his hand as I jumped off of the sink. Normally, I would have made a snarky comeback, but seeing as Sherlock was, well, Sherlock, I left this instance alone. Besides, it was not the first time make-up had been a subject between us. In the early months of our acquaintance, Sherlock and I had disputed quite a few times about my look, mainly the shade of my lipstick. He argued that the color I wore was too orange for my skin tone and I insisted that it was fine. When he started to annoy me, I changed it and suddenly he declared it was too pink. Then, one day as I was sorting through my make-up in search of my lipstick, I found it missing. Upon asking Sherlock if he had seen it, he told me to check the medicine cabinet. I was confused, seeing as I never put make-up in the medicine cabinet, but when I opened the mirror I found a single golden tube of lipstick that I was not familiar with. Opening it, I discovered a bright shade of red, not too orange and not too pink. Smirking, I swiped it on, accepting that it was indeed a good shade. When I glanced at the name of the shade so I could remember it for last time I almost laughed. British Red.

As I finished reminiscing, I noticed that Sherlock had left the bathroom and was also in the midst of leaving the flat, his wool coat swinging behind him as he pulled it on.

"Wait!" I called out, jogging towards the top of the stairs as Sherlock turned to face me. "Where are you going?"

"To interview the neighbors. I don't expect Lestrade's men are very capable of doing so," Sherlock said, standing eye to eye with me on a lower step.

"When will you be back?" I asked, reaching out to smooth his coat collar down and then pop it back up slightly before letting my hands rest on his shoulders. "I'm cooking dinner tonight."

"Chicken," he assumed, his eyes lighting up as he wore a slight smirk, well aware that he was right.

"Yes," I told him shortly, putting my chin up proudly.

"You always cook chicken first," he noted.

"I don't remember you ever complaining," I pointed out.

"Make extra," Sherlock told me.

"For Mrs. Hudson?" I asked.

"Leftovers," he clarified. "There has to be something to eat for lunch." Smiling, I nodded, patting his shoulder.

"You'd better go," I said, letting Sherlock turn away. As he did, my one hand traveled up to the curls at the nape of his neck. In a practiced motion I twisted one around my finger and let it tug lightly as he left. Sherlock grew stiff, his foot missing the step and sending him toppling down the stairs.

"Sherlock!" I gasped, following.

* * *

Gently dabbing Sherlock's jaw, I winced for him as the alcohol touched the cut. "Sorry," I mumbled, finishing with the small cloth before setting it down and reaching for a Band-Aid.

"Don't be, it didn't hurt," he said, eyes flickering down to follow the movement of my hands.

"Whatever, tough guy," I said, unpeeling the sticky ends to put it on his already bruising chin, carefully placing it. "All fixed. Next time, avoid the banister as you trip down the stairs."

"I wouldn't have tripped had someone not…startled me," he stated proudly, sticking his freshly bandaged chin up.

"It's good that I startled you," I told him. "It proves that you're human."

"Are there really that many doubts?" he asked, eyeing me curiously.

"More than you think," I said, clicking the first aid kit shut. "There, now you're all fixed and can get on with your interviews. Be sure you're home on time or you'll be reheating dinner." As I put away the kit, Sherlock's steps padded slowly down the steps, no doubt more cautiously than before. Moving back to the sink in the bathroom, I began the careful process of cleaning my face of the caked on make-up, grinning to myself as I thought of Sherlock's stumble.

Not many people knew that Sherlock, like all other mortals, had weaknesses. Some were indulgences that he took care to hide while others were physical and undeniable. For instance, giving the hair at the nape of his neck even a slight tug would make him suddenly tense, then, usually, melt into metaphorical putty. This little secret had been unknown to me, and perhaps Sherlock, until one late night of research on a case we were both working. It had been nearly three months after we had met and I had convinced Sherlock to help Mycroft on a special case. We had been staying in a hotel room, Sherlock sat with his back leaning on the bed I was laying on. Despite the habit of mirroring people, I had my own personal ticks that were my own. One was mouthing the words I was writing, but the other was that my hand wandered when I was completely focused on something. Part of it was because I was a kinetic learner and moving helped me to remember bits of information. Sometimes, I would play with a pen or tap out a tune with my fingers, but often my hand would find its way to my hair. Seeing as my blonde strands had been braided up into a bun, Sherlock's head of curls made a nice substitute. Without thinking, I had begun to brush my hands through his hair and when he did nothing to stop it, I continued. Somehow, my fingers became twisted in the curls and I had tugged them. Sherlock had tensed, much like today, before leaning into my hand and closing his eyes in relaxation. It took only a moment for us both to notice the sudden change and by the time it had passed Sherlock was sitting straighter and my chin was now resting on my hand. Still, I never forgot the first weakness of his that I had discovered, especially when it came in handy.

* * *

Ellie transformed into a ballroom dancer when she cooked, making the kitchen her stage and all of its contents both her partner and her audience. The waltz was best suited for maneuvering around the table as well as to and from the fridge and oven. On her toes, with back straight and arm extended, she pulled the prepared chicken from the fridge and in three steps shut the door, set it on the table, and spun to switch the stove on before pausing. As the butter began to heat in the saucepan and melt, Ellie cast a look over her left shoulder before spinning back to the table and picking up the tray of chicken before finishing her rotation in front of a drawer for tongs and then at last returning to the now liquefied butter. She carefully placed five strips of chicken coated in parmesan and bread crumbs in the simmering pan, the warm smell of cheese and butter wafting through the flat. Watching Ellie cook was truly a spectacle.

"What happened to your face?"

A spectacle that some just could not see.

"I fell," Sherlock told Watson, standing from his chair and walking into the kitchen, earning a smile from the cook as she spun again. On the table, she placed a bread knife and cutting board before depositing a loaf of baguette bread on it. If anyone was in Ellie's kitchen, they either got to work or got out.

"You fell?" Watson questioned further. It had taken the shorter man a surprising length of seven minutes after Sherlock returned that evening before inquiring about the Band-Aid on his chin. Reaching for the knife and loaf, Sherlock cast a quick glance up at Ellie who was suppressing a smile while turning back to tend to the chicken, flipping over the strips to reveal the golden breading and cheese.

"Yes," he answered shortly, looking down as he began to cut the hard crusted bread in thin slices. His curt tone silenced Watson, though the doctor threw quite a few more curious glances his way, all of which were ignored. After all of the bread was cut and placed into a bowl with a damp paper towel placed over it, Ellie handed him some string beans to prepare. When the young woman was focused on a task, little else disturbed her, not even speech. Silently, they worked side by side, Sherlock joining her dance even if it was only to move out of her way as she twirled around cooking her chicken to delicious perfection. By the time everything was set on the table, Watson was already sitting down, waiting for the food that had been taunting him since she prepared the breading. Maneuvering behind Ellie, Sherlock pulled out her chair as she moved to sit, his simple action earning another smile as he took his own seat to her right, Watson on her left and already half way through one piece of chicken. She accepted his compliments as she picked her own piece, a perfectly bronzed and buttered strip that had been buried near the bottom along with a larger piece that she made sure Sherlock noticed. Once, Ellie had confided in him that her father always stole the best piece of food, even when someone else had labored for dinner, so she had taken to of hiding it. Through the years, she kept up the habit, but know also shared the location with him.

"So, what did you learn today?" she asked, speaking for the first time and cutting into the chicken before scooping it into her mouth.

"Learn? What do you mean? Where did you go?" Watson asked Sherlock with a mouth full of food.

"Manners, Watson," the taller man reminded him. "I interviewed the neighbors again. It appears there was a visitor to the house."

"Really? Who?" Ellie asked, reaching for her glass of water.

"A business man that apparently frequents the neighborhood. According to the little old lady across the street, the two were rather friendly, but he hasn't been around recently."

"Is he on your list to visit tomorrow then?' Watson asked, this time after swallowing his food.

"I thought we may go about interviewing him in a different manner," Sherlock said, glancing over at the woman. Smirking, she set down her glass and retrieved the knife again.

"Secretary or worried client?" she asked.

"Neither," Sherlock answered. "Routine inspector."

"Well," the cook sighed, "This all just became much more fun."

"Why?" John asked confused.

"Because now I get to play," Ellie told him with a sly twist to her lips, smirking as she ate another piece of chicken and chewed it with a delighted glint to her eyes.

* * *

Hello, and thank you for reading The Stained Satin! I am so sorry it has taken me so long to update! At the very start of this, all of the chapters were coming up rather quickly and then...well, life happened. A lot of life. Apparently (to my own shock), I have one. First, it was equestrian competitions, then midterms, then finals, and then I went to China and Tibet. Now I'm back! Kind of bad news, however, is soon I will be in Ireland for a month and England for another two weeks. I will do my best to keep updating! Though, please to not expect it to be rapidly, perhaps bi-weekly. I have research to do in Ireland so I will be busy.

Thank you for your patience! This story wouldn't be happening if it wasn't for all of you wonderful people!. A special thanks to all of my followers and those who have favorited this!

Please feel free to leave me a review! I never get enough of hearing what you think about this story as well as suggestions!


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